No friends :(

• View All

• How well do you know Neil? 4 Taken

• View All

• Ah, cheery old September.

  Being thirty is a glowing brick of turds. It's a lot like being twenty nine, but with the ticking of the mortality clock ever more louder in the ears. It's like a giant shitting into a steel drum, constantly...for twenty four hours a day.
  
  And still, the grey ball of boredom rolls ever on. Still, big thanks to the sexy people who made Sunday eighties night such a massive chunk of inconcievable fun. We had some good times, yes we did, and even your's truly discovered, that even being a cranky, sneering and cynical thirty year old, even I can shake my arse to some twenty year old tunes.
  
  Great night.

  0 Comments 358 weeks

• A more Bebo Local Specific journal entry.

  This right here is the genuine beer, the beer of tremendousness. Get drunk on this and you'll feel like a god urinating on the entire planet. Weeing everywhere. Really.
  
  Actually, there is no heavenly nectar. There is nothing but the dank dark Monday evening in Minster, and your lives bleeding into the cracks in the floor. And knowing the masonry quality consistent in housing throughout the village, you probably won't have to rely on that as mere metaphor. I tell you, my fucking bedroom is falling apart.
  
  Work today was as enjoyable as being wanked off by a bee hive. Too much sting, not enough spunk. Rubbish, utterly rubbish.
  
  Still, I have Quake IV to look forward to playing, if I should ever get the fucking thing installed on the new computer. That still lies in the other room sans internet connection, while I waste time typing shit blog entries on an awful machine.

  0 Comments 393 weeks

• Fucking Saturday.

  Would appear to be the case that I am once again indoors, on a breathlessly dull Saturday afternoon rotting my arse away gazing into the endless distance of a computer monitor.
  
  I can't help it. I'm a diarist. That's what I do. I sit and yawn, drink tea, and hurl malignant sidelong glances at my mother until such time as an epiphany hits me, when I can write a poem, a fucking sonnet, a song. Anything. Sometimes it all comes in threes, and i'll become a prolific scraweler. Most of the time i'll sit here and listen to the sound of Inspector Morse getting angry in the background because he's found a fucking cigar in a shopping basket that apparently means a man's murdered someone, and nobody believes him.
  
  The whole status quo of television detective dramas bothers me, as it's not a subject matter that can be particularly steered in original directions. You have a grumpy, stand offish detective in a fucking coat, a tedious, obseqious sidekick, and a stream of people that disagree with him.
  
  It's bollocks, really. That's all it is. And it's shite i've been having pumped into my ears for the better part of an hour.
  
  Never mind, it's work tonight. That should provide some distraction from an otherwise bloody irritating day.
  
  

  0 Comments 394 weeks